If the man who had been in her father’s room had left the bungalow, it had been without Anne’s knowledge. She had not heard any one go out. But then it might very well have been that she was far too absorbed, in far too great mental distress, to have paid any attention, even if the man had slammed the front door behind him. She stood now beside the table in her sitting-room, a rigid little figure with hands clenched at her sides, as Henry Walton entered and set the lamp which he carried down between them.
Anne did not look up, though she was quite well aware that her father was regarding her fixedly. She was still fighting for mental composure, for her very reason itself, it seemed—as she had been fighting from that moment out there in the hall which seemed ages and ages ago, so long ago
